


Breakfall

by Heavy Henry (HeavyHenry)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Hank can have a little fluff, Judo, Like so slow I'm not even sure it's still burning, M/M, Martial Arts, Phichit POV, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, as a treat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyHenry/pseuds/Heavy%20Henry
Summary: “Think San Jose is sending a team?” He glanced at Yuuri then looked quickly away. They all pretended to have forgotten what happened last year, but it was hard when Yuuri was glaring at the list of weight classes like it had insulted his mother.Phichit rolled his eyes. “No, I’m sure that they’ve decided that 50 years of complete domination is enough.Of coursethey’re sending a team.” He watched Yuuri out of the corner of his eye. “That Ivan Drago wannabe should have graduated, at least.”The Judo AU based on a dream.After a disappointing performance at last year's National Collegiate Judo Championship, Yuuri Katsuki has one more chance to redeem himself before graduation. The only thing standing in his way is a certain undefeated Russian.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 45
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I was about ready to throw in the towel on writing when I had the dream that inspired this. I'm very grateful for the encouragement that I've received. Many thanks to aceofjapan for exposition wrangling. They're great! Read their stuff!
> 
> I have tried to write this so that you can figure out what's going on even if you know nothing about competitive judo. I myself only know a tiny bit more than nothing (mostly through some experience with Aikido), so if you have done judo competition and don't mind being bombarded with questions, please leave a comment. In case you are interested in learning more, though, I'm going to try to insert some links to demonstrations of the techniques referenced. I'll also stick a list of some terms and definitions in an end note.

It was an unassuming Tuesday when Phichit walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the unusual sight of all three of his housemates crowded around the table. It wasn’t that they didn’t get along, or even that they didn’t hang out together that made it so strange. It was just that they were usually more of a sleep-till-noon-and-eat-a-bowl-of-cereal-on-the-couch sort of a house. He wasn’t even sure why they had a kitchen table, come to think of it. He glanced at his watch. It was only the crack of 9, and yet they were all awake and (mostly) clothed. Yuuri was just wearing a ratty pair of blue gi pants, but Phichit had spent the last three years calibrating his expectations of morning Yuuri and this was above and beyond. Wait. Was that the Gracie logo he spied? Phichit had been looking for those pants since the last tournament. He narrowed his eyes.

“I love the smell of Tiger Balm in the morning. What are you all doing up? Having a house meeting without me?”

Yuuri jumped and tried to look innocent, like a labrador caught stealing someone’s favorite pants.

Otabek barely looked away from the papers, immune to the tension, as usual. “We got the info packet for Nationals.”

“Ooh. Any surprises?”

“Not really. It’s at Iowa State this year. We should go ahead and book a couple of rooms,” Yuuri commented, still not meeting Phichit’s eyes.

“Great. It’ll be cold as balls.”

“Probably, yeah,” Leo agreed. “Think San Jose is sending a team?” He glanced at Yuuri then looked quickly away. They all pretended to have forgotten what happened last year, but it was hard when Yuuri was glaring at the list of weight classes like it had insulted his mother.

Phichit rolled his eyes. “No, I’m sure that they’ve decided that 50 years of complete domination is enough. _Of course_ they’re sending a team.” He watched Yuuri out of the corner of his eye. “That Ivan Drago wannabe should have graduated, at least.”

Yuuri snapped into motion at that. “I’d better go.”

“You don’t have class until noon.”

“I’m not going to class. I’m going to the gym.”

“Cool. Wash my pants before you give them back.”

Yuuri looked down as if he’d forgotten that he was a dirty pants-stealer. “Um, yeah, of course. Sorry.” He disappeared into his room.

Otabek cleared his throat. “So, I assume you already know Nikiforov is definitely competing this year?”

“Of course. He posted it on Instagram this morning.” 

“Wow.” Leo sounded a little stunned. “You don’t miss anything, do you?”

“One day, Leo, I shall pass all of my secrets down to you. The traditions must be upheld.”

This is what happened last year:

The Louisiana University team had been in high spirits as they planned their trip out to San Jose State for the National Collegiate Judo Association Championship. Yuuri, black belt and judo club vice-president, had just won the Southwest Regional Championship in his class. Several other club members had placed, including Phichit and Sara’s kata team. It had been a first for their club, so accustomed to living in the shadow of Texas A&M. Their coach, Celestino-sensei, had been over the moon. 

They weren’t delusional. None of them, except maybe Yuuri, had any thoughts of medaling. Louisiana University’s judo club was an old club, but hadn’t been particularly active in competition until Celestino-sensei had taken it over a few years before Phichit joined. Along with a couple of upperclassmen who had been practicing at a local dojo, they had rebuilt the club from the ground up. While Yuuri would never believe it, he had been a big part of that, encouraging students to join, mostly by letting Sara fling him all over the place during kata demonstrations. Once they were, he’d encourage them to go to a local competition, to spectate, maybe to sign up. He’d bill it as a great experience, a way to test your skills, to meet other judoka. “Winning doesn’t mean beating the other guy,” he would say, “Winning means doing better than you’ve ever done before.” Despite this, or maybe because of it, somehow they actually started to win. It was mostly just state-level and regional things but that didn’t make them any less proud of every team trophy that they got to stick in the little case in the corner. 

At the National Collegiate Judo Association championship they would be up against clubs from West Point or San Jose, the sorts of clubs that could offer scholarships and brag about the Olympic Medalists who had started training there. A bronze medal or two would be more than enough to have the whole club flying high all the way home. They thought it was a reasonable, if ambitious, goal for their first outing at a national event. 

And then Yuuri’s dog died. 

Phichit had come home in the middle of the day to grab his charger, and had found Yuuri on the phone with his mother, sobbing. 

He didn’t want to talk about it, though, which was typical Yuuri. Yuuri generally didn’t want to talk about things, even normal what-do-you-want-for-dinner sorts of things, so it wasn’t a shock that he wasn’t keen on sharing something like this. What he did want to do was work. He spent hours in the gym, and then he took extra shifts at the diner, working late into the night, and falling asleep during lectures. 

Phichit had worried, but Yuuri had perked up by the time they departed. Nevertheless, it was an unusually sedate group that piled into the van that Celestino had talked the University into letting them use. A grand road trip across the Southwest had sounded like an adventure when they planned it. By the time they got to San Jose though, they were exhausted and snappish, with only enough energy to grab some drive-through garbage before checking into their rooms and passing out.

Fortunately, they had most of the next day to recuperate before dealing with registration and weigh-ins. While the rest of the team went out to play tourist, Yuuri stayed in the hotel, saying he didn’t feel well. Phichit felt a little guilty, but Yuuri insisted that no one change their plans on his account, so the rest of them had trooped off to tour the Winchester Mystery House. 

When they got back, Yuuri was gone. Before Phichit could worry he spotted the note scrawled on the little pad of hotel stationery. No one could see him, so Phichit didn’t bother to suppress the eye roll. Yuuri could have texted, like a normal person. Phichit could practically hear the excuse, the _I didn’t want to bother you._ Phichit had known Yuuri long enough to know what it really meant. It meant that Yuuri didn’t want to risk having a conversation about it. 

So, there were clues, maybe, that Yuuri wasn’t doing _great_. Later Phichit would feel bad about this, like he should have been a better friend somehow, should have done something to magically make the weekend suck less for his buddy. In the moment, though, he didn’t know, couldn’t know, because Yuuri had very deliberately not talked to any of them about it. 

The Novice Division competed first. Phichit lost his first round match as excitement got the better of him. He won the next two, though, one with an _ippon_ that he thought was pretty spectacular, if he did say so himself. He was finally eliminated in the final match of the loser’s bracket, within spitting distance of third place. Sure, it had been disappointing to come so close, but he was tired and hungry and he had already surpassed his own expectations, so he was pretty content to rejoin the rest of the team in the bleachers. Leo and Otabek appeared to feel similarly about their own performance. They rejoined the rest of the team in the bleachers and settled in to watch the award ceremony. 

Phichit plopped down next to Yuuri who passed him a protein bar and a bottle of water. “Nice job.”

“Thanks! Did you see that [Tsuri-goshi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_rag76pFL9U)?” “Yup. Damn near perfect technique.” Yuuri sounded a little strained as he said it, but just then Sara leaned over his shoulder. 

“Pretty sure mine won’t look that good this afternoon,” she commented. Phichit would be Sara’s _uke_ during the kata competition later that day, receiving the techniques during the formal demonstration of the [Nage no Kata](https://youtu.be/-Qe_JKQjJTA). 

“Aw, you’re sweet. You know I learned everything I know from you.” 

She smirked, “Just the bad habits, right Yuuri?”

Yuuri didn’t say anything, his eyes fixed on the award ceremony taking place down on the mats. He was bouncing one of his knees hard enough to make the bench shake. Phichit reached over and put a hand on it. “Yuuri?”

“Hm, yeah.” His eyes looked a little wild. 

“You okay?” Sara asked.

“Oh, yeah, fine. I better go change.”

Phichit looked back at Sara. “He okay?”

Yuuri was not okay. It was clear even before he stepped onto the mat. He looked shaky and stiff, all at once. It was a bad combination, the kind of thing that could get a guy hurt, like, seriously hurt, beyond the bumps and bruises that were the norm after a match. Phichit watched from the bleachers as Celestino-sensei talked to Yuuri, his usual pep-talk directed at the top of Yuuri’s head. Yuuri was nodding, but his gaze appeared to be fixed squarely on his toes. Sara was next to Celestino-sensei, limbering up and waiting for her own match to start. She looked up and caught Phichit’s eye with a grimace and a subtle shake of her head. 

The referee stepped onto the mat and motioned to the fighters. Yuuri’s opponent was a lanky red-haired kid, all arms and legs next to Yuuri’s compact strength. That could be a good thing. As Yuuri trudged onto the mat, though, Phichit knew how the match would end. 

It was quick, at least. The other guy was energetic, bouncing around the mat, grabbing at Yuuri’s lapels, trying to drag him off balance. Yuuri got a grip of his sleeve and tried to move in and hook his toes around his opponent’s heel, but the red-head managed to step out of it. He was off-balance, though, and Yuuri should have been able to take advantage of it. Instead, though, he backed off, giving the other fighter time to recover. Phichit winced as Yuuri was tugged forward, his opponent dancing in with a foot to Yuuri’s knee. The throw was perfect, spectacular enough that it was sure to make the highlights video. 

Phichit knew that Yuuri would be polite to a fault, so he took it upon himself to glare at the red-haired kid with the fury of a thousand suns as he punched the air in triumph. Meanwhile, Yuuri picked himself up and bowed to the other fighter, then stepped forward for a handshake. The smile slipped off Yuuri’s face the second he turned to leave the mat. Celestino-sensei met him with a water bottle, patting his shoulder as Yuuri fixed his gi, before accompanying Sara to her fight.

Yuuri’s next match was even worse. He was up against a kid from West Point, with a buzzcut and a tribal tattoo on his lower back. Phichit found out about the ink later, as the guy ploughed through the loser’s bracket, proving himself one of those fighters who couldn’t keep his judogi closed if his life depended on it. Yuuri had waded in with his head down, determined like a bulldog, and gone for the guy’s lapel. His opponent had grinned a big, cocky smile and gone down in a [sumi-gaeshi](https://youtu.be/kod5QHdmE7E). Phichit winced. It was one of Yuuri’s favorite techniques. The referee awarded a half-point. The fighters got to their feet and waited for the ref to resume the match. Emboldened by his success, Yuuri’s opponent went in aggressively, forcing Yuuri to his knees almost right away. He followed him down, falling across Yuuri’s body. There was a brief scuffle, as Yuuri tried to escape. West Point was going for the arm lock, and Yuuri was putting up a good fight, trying to twist out of it, but it was no good. The judge would call ippon soon, even if Yuuri didn’t tap out. Phichit could see the slump in both their postures when Yuuri went limp, slapping his opponent's shoulder.

The ref signalled the end of the match, but instead of stepping back and letting Yuuri get to his feet, the other guy stepped over Yuuri, one foot on each side of his ribs, and straightened his judogi. Phichit thought he saw the ref say something that didn’t look pleased. The guy grinned again and stepped to the side. Yuuri pushed himself to his feet. He held himself together, bowing stiffly, and nodding to his opponent as they clasped hands. As soon as he left the mat, though, he disappeared.

Phichit thought about following, but he knew Yuuri wouldn’t want to talk to anyone for a bit. 

There was no crying in judo, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah,” Yuuri muttered, wondering how many mono-syllabic responses he’d have to give before Nikiforov got the hint. 
> 
> “And what about you? Are you enjoying the tournament?”
> 
> “Yeah...sure.” Oh yes, he was having the absolute time of his life.
> 
> “In the interest of hospitality, I would like to extend an invitation,” Nikiforov held out a folded piece of paper. Yuuri recognized it as a customer comment form. He took it and flattened it over his knee. “I cannot stress enough how much this is _not_ an event hosted or endorsed by San Jose State, SJSU Judo, or any of their affiliates.” 
> 
> Yuuri stared at the little hand-drawn map and address scrawled on the paper, then looked over his shoulder, completely dumbfounded.
> 
> Nikiforov smirked. “To translate: we’re having a party. Tell your friends, and tell them not to tell their coach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I made slower progress than I would like, but I'm back! 
> 
> Many thanks for the kind (and helpful!) comments. I'm actually kind of blown away by the positive response that this has gotten. If you're enjoying this, but wish it were way darker, maybe check out one of my other fics.
> 
> \----

_This_ is what happened last year. 

After his second match, Yuuri grabbed his bag and ducked out of the gymnasium. He hurried past the trophy cases and the photos of donors and various athletic luminaries and dodged the straggling groups of judoka and spectators before reaching the sanctuary of the locker room. He was relieved to find it empty. Yuuri knew he didn’t have long to linger. It would look bad, like poor sportsmanship, if he didn’t go back to support his teammates, but he needed a moment before he could go out there. Yuuri had never been good at hiding his feelings, and he needed a moment to wallow in his own disappointment before going back out and looking happy. It wouldn’t even be an act: he would be thrilled, genuinely ecstatic for his friends, all of whom were busy, if not winning, then at least turning in a performance that they could be proud of. 

It wasn’t even losing that stung so much. It was the sure and certain knowledge that Yuuri had not done his best and that he had no one to blame but himself. He had pinned high, possibly unrealistic, hopes on this weekend. He had let himself entertain fantasies of placing, even of winning. It was stupid. _He’d_ been stupid. 

The sob that choked him was a surprise. He clasped his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound, fingers digging into his cheeks. It was hard to say how long he sat there, hunched over his knees, body so tense he shook, as he tried to not to make a sound. Eventually, as all things do, it passed, leaving him feeling light and a little bit headachey. He blew his nose, washed his face, and changed out of his judogi. It wasn’t even that sweaty, just another reminder of how little time he’d actually spent on the mat today. 

He wadded it up and shoved it into his duffel bag, determined not to think about it anymore. As he zipped the bag and stood, the door was flung open hard enough to slam into the wall. Yuuri straightened his glasses and tried to mind his own business. The guy looked familiar, of course he did; Yuuri had seen him a few hours ago, atop a podium. One of the Novice winners. 

“What are you looking at?” 

If Yuuri had won today, he definitely would have sounded happier about it. “Congratulations. Um, on your win, I mean.” 

The guy scoffed, looking Yuuri up and down with a critical eye. “Whatever.” He shouldered past Yuuri without another word. 

While hardly pleasant, Yuuri’s locker room encounter had been the ideal distraction from his own mortification. He made his way back to his teammates in the bleachers, just in time to see Sara win her match and proceed to the next round. 

“How you doing?” Phichit asked, as Yuuri slid onto the bench next to him. 

“Not thrilled, obviously.” Yuuri said. “I sucked. There’s nothing else to say.” 

“Yuuri,” Phichit began, but Yuuri had absolutely no interest in a pep-talk or, worse, hearing one of Yuuri’s own platitudes about how _winning doesn’t really matter, as long as you do your best, blah blah blah_. He hadn’t done his best, he had lost: come in absolutely dead last, the loser of the L bracket. The loseriest loser there ever was. 

“I’m not talking about it right now, Phichit.” 

“Fair enough. Just know that you’ll hear about it later.” 

A new match was starting on the mat in front of them and Yuuri turned his attention to it, hoping Phichit would follow his lead. It was still the 81 kg seniors, Yuuri’s division, but even if it hadn’t been, Yuuri would have had trouble pulling his attention from the mat. The competitor in the white gi was familiar, even though Yuuri had spent more time with his nose crammed into the guy’s armpit than he had looking at his face during their previous encounter. The guy in the blue Team USA gi was also familiar but in a way that Yuuri couldn’t quite place. He knew a name, at least: Nikiforov, screen printed across the back of the jacket. 

He wasn’t anyone Yuuri had met, because Yuuri was pretty sure he would remember the way this guy’s eyes flashed blue as he glanced up at the bleachers, glinting like he was some kind of Disney Prince. He was pretty sure that he would remember the way the guy smiled, confident, cocky even, but still friendly as his coach clapped him on the shoulder. Most of all, Yuuri was sure he would remember the way the guy moved, fluid and sure. 

Yuuri hated guys like that. 

It was painful, deeply annoying, but Yuuri found himself rooting for the redhead from his first march. At first, it was more a point of pride. If he won, then it meant that there was nothing so shameful in losing to him. It was just that he’d had the misfortune of going up against some so skilled so early in the tournament. As the match progressed, though, it was more that Yuuri had started to feel bad for the guy. Yuuri’s old friend put up a good fight, but the outcome was never really in doubt. Nikiforov was undeniably dominant throughout. He didn’t go for any big throws, seeming happy to go to the mat early. The skill differential was so apparent that it was hard not to feel like Nikiforov was toying with his opponent. 

Correction: Yuuri didn’t hate _guys like that_. Yuuri hated _this_ guy. 

Nikiforov won, because of course he did. Yuuri had rarely been less surprised at the outcome of a tournament. The final match came down to Nikiforov against a curly-haired blonde with great throws but disappointing groundwork. Nikiforov won with a frankly ridiculous throw that involved grabbing his opponent’s belt and pinwheeling him bodily over his thigh. 

“We are totally trying that one when we get home,” Phichit commented as the ref called ippon. 

The blond got to his feet with a rueful shake of his head. They bowed, and Yuuri was surprised to see the usual handshake returned with more warmth than formality, and a sheepish shrug from Nikiforov. Friends, then. 

Yuuri watched the other divisions compete, other spectators flowing to and away from the seats around him. As the kata competition began, Yuuri found himself alone, with Celestino-sensei near the mats to support Phichit and Sara, while Otabek and Leo had drifted to other seats as they caught up with friends from other clubs. When someone shuffled into the row behind him, Yuuri didn’t look around, focused on the competition in front of him. He slapped a hand on top of his bag to stop it from falling as it was jostled. 

“Ah, sorry.” 

“No problem,” Yuuri glanced back and froze. It was Nikiforov, now in a San Jose State sweatshirt, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He cleared his throat and looked back to the mat, feeling the other man’s gaze tickling between his shoulder blades but firmly determined to ignore the rustling and shifting behind him. 

“Ah, here we go.” A hand appeared in Yuuri peripheral vision. “Lozenge?” 

Yuuri stared and Nikiforov wiggled the little bag of Fisherman’s Friend at him. _What was even happening?_ “Um, okay,” he gingerly reached out, noticing the usual spread of grappling injuries, a blood blister on one thumb, blackened pinky nail, the sticky lines left by tape, and, surprisingly, chipped remnants of glittery nail polish. He accepted the bag and shook one of the brown wafers into his palm before passing it back, briefly letting his eyes flick up to that Curacao blue gaze, “Thanks.” 

Down on the floor, Phichit and Sara bowed, taking large formal steps onto the mat, movements perfectly in sync. Yuuri had contributed nothing beyond feedback but he still felt a flash of pride as they moved through the techniques, choreography as controlled and as beautiful, in its own way, as a dance. Most of the time, Yuuri didn’t spend much time thinking about the aesthetics of Judo. There were times that he found it beautiful, certainly: the spectacular arc of a perfect Uchi Mata, the glorious heights of a Tomoe Nage, but most of the time, Yuuri’s focus was on the practical. He didn’t have any desire to compete in kata, the formality wasn’t something he thought he would ever find appealing, but he sure liked watching it. 

It was distracting, though, having Nikiforov behind him. He didn’t _do_ anything. He just watched attentively, quiet, except for the occasional soft comment. “Nice,” he would breathe after Okuri ashi harai or “Ooh, good one,” as Sara dropped for Ura nage. Yuuri’s shoulders jerked upward every time. By the time they got to Uki waza, he was starting to think he’d be stuck that way. 

It didn’t stop him from jumping to his feet and cheering as they left the mat. 

“That was nicely done,” Nikiforov commented behind him. “Friends of yours?” 

“Yeah,” Yuuri muttered, wondering how many mono-syllabic responses he’d have to give before Nikiforov got the hint. 

“And what about you? Are you enjoying the tournament?” 

“Yeah...sure.” Oh yes, he was having the absolute time of his life. 

“In the interest of hospitality, I would like to extend an invitation,” Nikiforov held out a folded piece of paper. Yuuri recognized it as a customer comment form. He took it and flattened it over his knee. “I cannot stress enough how much this is _not_ an event hosted or endorsed by San Jose State, SJSU Judo, or any of their affiliates.” 

Yuuri stared at the little hand-drawn map and address scrawled on the paper, then looked over his shoulder, completely dumbfounded. 

Nikiforov smirked. “To translate: we’re having a party. Tell your friends, and tell them not to tell their coach.” 

With that, he sauntered away. 

Unsurprisingly, when it came time to decide whether or not to put in an appearance at the party (completely not hosted or endorsed by San Jose State), Yuuri was outvoted four to one. Of _course_ they were going to a party. Yuuri had tried to send his cohorts off with his blessing, but Phichit had looked so sad at the prospect that Yuuri had agreed to come. It would be fine. Yuuri was good at being left alone at parties. 

As soon as they arrived, Yuuri implemented his plan. He accepted a welcoming shot from a bubbly redhead, grabbed a beer from an ice chest on the back porch and plopped into a lawn chair, firmly committed to watching reaction videos until one of his teammates decided to retrieve him. The plan worked for about an hour before the rest of the party overflowed into the backyard. 

“Hey!” Phichit bounced over to him. “I wondered where you had gone.” 

Yuuri gestured at the yard with the bottom of his now-empty beer. “It _was_ quiet.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that, bro.” 

Yuuri shrugged and stood. “Guard my chair: I need another beer if I’m gonna watch bocce ball.” 

At the ice chest, he ran into Nikiforov. He wasn’t sure how he had thought he’d be able to avoid it. “You came!” He sounded genuinely pleased at that, for some reason that Yuuri could not begin to fathom. 

“Well, everyone else…” 

“So, what did you think of the matches?” That was when it clicked. Nikiforov had only encountered Yuuri in the stands, and Yuuri had already changed. He probably had no idea that Yuuri had been a competitor. He had assumed what? That Yuuri was there to support his friends, just tagging along. There was no reason for him to have watched any of Yuuri’s matches, busy either prepping for his own, or maybe even competing on one of the other mats. Oh, thank god. There was at least one person at this party who didn’t pity Yuuri. 

“Um, it was interesting. So judo, much grappling. Wow.” 

“I know, right?” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Victor.” Yuuri stared at it for a beat too long. Oh well, it was kinda weird to keep calling him Nikiforov. 

He shook. “Yuuri.” 

“Oh wow! There’s a Yuri on my team!” Nikiforov, no, _Victor_ , passed him a shot glass full enough that it got sticky liquor all over Yuuri’s fingers. He slammed it before it got any worse, then licked his fingers. Victor grinned at him, his cheeks getting a little pink. Well, it was pretty warm in the kitchen, after all. 

Yuuri wasn’t sure when it all went wrong. Maybe it was that last shot, that moment when Yuuri realized that he was dangerously close to enjoying himself. Maybe it was when Yuuri had woken up that morning. Maybe it was a couple of weeks ago, when his sister had called him in tears to tell him that they were going to have to have Pup-chan (or Puptor the Burninator, to give him his full name) put down. Maybe it went back even further, to when Yuuri, the chubby, quiet, queer teenager whose greatest ambition at the time had been to become a backup dancer for Beyonce, had been dragged to the dojo because someone had suggested that martial arts might help him be more confident. It turned out that it didn’t, not particularly, but it did turn out that Yuuri was pretty good at judo. 

Or so he had thought. 

It didn’t really matter when it started, Yuuri supposed. All that mattered was that by the time Yuri Plisetsky stepped on his toes at a college party, it had definitely, already, gone way wrong. 

“Ouch,” Yuuri muttered, which he quickly realized was a mistake, much in the way that a mouse apologizing to an owl might only belatedly comprehend its error. 

“What?” Yuri Plisetsky turned to glare up at him from behind the curtain of blond hair and angst, somehow making his small stature imposing as he glared up through his bangs. Yuuri didn’t know at the time that this was Yuri Plisetsky. That knowledge would come later, with vengeful googling of the championship results. Right now, Yuuri just knew that the guy who had hated him in the locker room also hated him now, at this party. Yuuri watched as recognition, gleeful and malignant dawned and Plisetsky grinned, baring his teeth at Yuuri. “You...what the fuck are you doing here, loser?” 

Yuuri rocked back on his heels and looked down at the kid. He went a little further than he planned and had to take a step to correct his balance. Oof, maybe that last beer had been a bad idea. He pawed through his pockets and located the folded scrap of paper, triumphantly thrusting it in front of the kid’s face. “I have an invitation!” 

Those mean green eyes crossed as Plistesky squinted at the scrawl of the map, which Yuuri was now waving around. “What the fuck is your problem?” 

“Yuri, be nice.” That was Victor, again, appearing somewhere behind Yuuri’s left ear. 

“I am!” Yuuri and Plisetsky snapped, almost in unison, which was how Yuuri learned that his antagonist was the other Yuri on Victor’s team. 

Neat. 

The other Yuri didn’t seem to feel the same. “What?” 

Yuuri just shrugged. 

“Yuri, this is Yuuri. He came out to support, which team was it?” 

“Louisiana U,” he mumbled. 

Victor snapped his fingers, “That’s it. So I invited them!” 

Yuuri wasn’t sure how Victor managed to ignore the epic death glare that he was currently receiving. It was probably visible from the International Space Station or somewhere similarly hyperbolic. Practice, probably. 

The other Yuri snorted then, which kinda broke the mood. Yuuri was relieved until he said, “Is that what you told him?” and turned back to Victor. “So, you didn’t see him completely eat shit out there? Twice?” 

“Oh.” Victor lifted an eyebrow at Yuuri. He was starting to feel a little queasy. 

“Yeah, I didn’t do great.” 

“Tch. You were an embarrassment.” 

“Yeah.” He was suddenly deeply tired and the queasiness was turning into legitimate nausea. “At least I’m not an asshole.” He stood up straight, as if he could shrug off their attention like an unwanted touch. “Whatever. Guess it’s time to go, huh?” 

“Yuuri -” Victor started, but looked like he didn’t have a plan for what was gonna come next. He gave up.“Okay. See you next year?” 

“I doubt it,” said Yuuri. 

That would have been okay, maybe even kind of cool, as an exit line, if he hadn’t followed it up by puking on Victor’s shoes. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri reflects on what went wrong. Phichit is always willing to help, or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! Hope this one is worth it (transitional chapters are always rough).

_It wasn’t that bad,_ Sara told him the next morning over Froot Loops and weird wet eggs in the hotel lobby while Yuuri Held his coffee cup against his forehead and groaned. 

_It wasn’t that bad,_ Leo insisted while stretching at a truckstop somewhere in Texas. 

Otabek didn’t say anything. Yuuri appreciated this because he was pretty damn sure that it had, in fact, been that bad. 

Phichit tried it while they were unloading the van. “You know, Yuuri - “ 

By that time, Yuuri had had enough and after thirty hours in a van, was actually willing to say so. “What? ‘It wasn’t that bad, everyone has an off day, it doesn’t mean that I completely humiliated myself in front of the entire collegiate judo community?’ Or were you going to go with ‘We’re in college, getting your shoes puked on is a right of passage?’” He slammed the door and he didn’t even care that Cao and Sara were only a few yards away, still unlocking their door, or that Leo and Otabek were still in the van, waiting for Celestino-sensei to drop them off at the dorms before he could return the van. Yuuri just couldn’t take one more fucking platitude. “Whatever you were thinking about saying to me, could you just, like, _not_?” He picked up his bag and stalked to the door. “I’m tired.” 

After that, he didn’t sleep well. By the morning, he felt guilty enough that he dragged Phichit to the diner down the street for apology hashbrowns. They talked, there was hugging, and things started to feel a little lighter. 

It took a while, but eventually Yuuri was able to see that he’d been heading for a crash. He’d been overtraining, not sleeping well, working too many hours in the bookstore. Maybe the crash would have come even if Puptor the Burninator had been alive and well. Maybe it was just bad luck, bad timing. Maybe it had been a bad idea to invest so much of his self-esteem into something that was, at the end of the day, a hobby. 

Or maybe, just maybe, he could accept that judo was more than that for him. Maybe he could pour just a little bit more of himself into it, but with a plan this time, not just running himself ragged and overtraining. Then, maybe he could go back next year and kick that smug asshole’s smug ass. 

He didn’t know how, exactly, Victor had become the focus of his vendetta. He was probably a perfectly nice guy, but humiliation had combined with ambition which had, in turn, combined with a fascination that Yuuri didn’t want to examine too closely. Somehow the combination added up to Yuuri at a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu clinic, trusting that the time spent with his face smushed into the mat would add up to better ground work. As he picked a short curly from between his incisors (not in the fun way), Yuuri had to ask himself why he had decided that judo, of all things, had to be his thing. 

He stuck with the BJJ, though, and found that it suited him. Yuuri had always been a marathoner, not a sprinter. He was a slow and steady kinda guy, and this played to those strengths. Maybe groundwork wasn't as flashy as the throws that he loved, but getting comfortable with it took away some of the anxiety that Yuuri got about competing. He used to dread going to the ground and pinned (ha ha) too many of his hopes on his throws. 

Celestino-sensei had tried to tell him this, but he had needed the extra kick out of his comfort zone to make it stick. 

When the semester was over, he spent a week at home in Shreveport, eating his parent’s cooking and helping out at their restaurant. He promised himself that he wouldn’t let the time between visits mount up, like he had this semester. Something had changed in a nameless way, and the small ranch style house with the big pine trees behind it didn’t quite feel the way it used to. He drifted through the house, trying to stay out of everyone’s way as their routine flowed around him, with Yuuri no longer a part of it.

They had buried Pup-chan in the garden, and the day before he went back to Baton Rouge, Yuuri went to the garden center with Mari to pick out a tree. They chose a bright pink crepe myrtle and planted it over him. Later, with dirt on his knees and under his fingernails, he cried an embarrassing amount, not just for Pup-chan, but for himself, for the little boy who played Pokemon in the backyard and danced in the living room and helped his mother cook and for all the other parts of him that felt like they were slipping through his fingers. 

“Remember the break-in?” Mari said. 

Yuuri sniffled and nodded. Someone had broken into their house when he was a kid. They’d all been at Mari’s school play and had come home to find their door dangling from its hinges, laptops gone, jewelry missing, and Pup-chan romping in the mess. 

In the backyard they found one of their suitcases, left near the fence where one of the intruders had dropped it on their way out. Inside was their DVD player and the set of cufflinks that Yuuri and Mari had given their dad for father’s day one year and Pup-chan’s favorite toy: the little stuffed penguin that Pup-chan loved to play tug-of-war with, still damp with doggy drool. 

“He helped them pack.” Yuuri said. 

Mari hid the quaver in her voice well when she said, “Pup-chan was an excellent doggo, but security was not in his skillset.” 

Yuuri hiccuped a damp chuckle. He stayed in the yard for a little bit longer before heading in. It was almost time for dinner.

Getting back to the run-down rental house was a relief that was flavored with guilt. He picked up extra shifts at the bookstore, saving up money for when the semester started again and he would have to cut back on his hours. Sara and Cao Bin had graduated and were leaving them, heading off to whatever people did when they were done with college. Leo and Otabek would be moving in, taking their empty rooms, thrilled to be out of the dorms. For the summer, though, it was just Yuuri and Phichit, trying to keep each other at least somewhat in shape, going for long runs around the lakes or down the levee, taking field trips to train at other dojos. It was a nice, quiet, waiting time. It was the first time Yuuri hadn’t gone home for the whole summer semester, had lived away from home as an adult without the routine of classes to fall back on. It felt good, a little bit exciting, a little bit frightening, a little bit like it might be good practice for whatever might come after this year.

August snuck up on him. Suddenly, summer was over, and Yuuri’s last year of college was underway. Leo and Otabek settled into their new rooms and the routine of the house adjusted just slightly around them. It was fun, living with a bunch of people that shared a hobby. In the rest of their lives, the four of them didn’t have much in common: different majors, different interests, different histories. It gave them something to talk about, a shared goal, and it made living together just a little bit easier. In turn, that made it easier to share their other interests. The fall semester flew by, a haze of research seminars and too many papers.

Before Yuuri knew it, he found himself filling out his entry form for another year’s National Collegiate Judo Competition. 

“Think San Jose is sending a team?” Leo asked as they all poured over the information packet. He glanced at Yuuri then looked quickly away. Yuuri wondered whether anyone would mention last year.

Phichit rolled his eyes. “No, I’m sure that they’ve decided that 50 years of complete domination is enough. _Of course_ they’re sending a team.” Yuuri was barely listening until he said, “that Ivan Drago wannabe should have graduated, at least.”

Yuuri felt like his insides were being pressure washed. Nikiforov had said ‘see you next year,’ hadn’t he? But he had been a senior, after all. Maybe he meant that he would be spectating. Somehow the idea that Yuuri wouldn’t get the chance to compete against the guy who had become a symbol of Yuuri’s failure the previous year, a human synecdoche or something, had not been a possibility that Yuuri had entertained. “I’d better go.”

“You don’t have class until noon,” Phichit looked up from where he was reading hotel reviews.

“I’m not going to class.” Yuuri didn’t know where he was going, he just knew that he needed to be moving. “I’m going to the gym,” he said, making up his mind.

“Cool. Wash my pants before you give them back.”

Yuuri should have known that Phichit wouldn’t let it slide. “Um, yeah, of course. Sorry.”

In the blessed privacy of his room, Yuuri allowed himself a brief but intense meltdown. Then he picked himself up and headed for the rec center.

  
  
  


Later that night, Phichit caught him lurking in the kitchen.

”Are you… is that tuna?” Phichit asked, phone already in hand.

Yuuri nodded. He’d been caught and there was nothing else to say.

”And you’re drinking the juice out of a pouch of tuna… with a coffee stirrer?” Phichit sounded positively gleeful.

This was all true. It was also true that this was, in no way, Yuuri’s fault. It was Leo’s week to do the dishes, which meant that the dishes hadn’t been done. So, yes, Yuuri could have washed a fork and a plate for himself. The fact of the matter was that Yuuri didn’t want to. Part of this was very likely laziness. Another part was the general principle of the thing. The third part was that Yuuri loved a challenge, no matter how ridiculous. So when he found a pair of coffee stirrers in the drawer of abandoned take-out utensils, he reasoned that he could use them like chopsticks and eat his ginger sesame tuna straight out of the pouch. It had worked. The fact that he could also use the coffee stirrers to sip the last of the sauce out of the bottom of the package was just an unexpected bonus. None of this was anything he felt like explaining to Phichit, who had absolutely no moral high ground, having once consumed a peanut butter and sauerkraut sandwich, so instead, Yuuri just nodded.

”So, you’ve basically invented Satan’s Capri Sun, is what you’re telling me.”

Yuuri finished his tuna juice with a slurp. “It has omega-3s,” he said, as if that justified anything. “Are you really recording this?” He tossed the empty packet into the trash, but left the coffee stirrers in the sink for Leo.

”That’s an incredibly stupid question.”

Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to be bothered. There was much worse on Phichit’s Instagram already. Maybe Starkist would want to sponsor him. 

”Confession time.” Phichit hopped up to sit on the counter. He reached over Yuuri’s head to grab a box of crackers. 

Yuuri raised an eyebrow at him and gave him a ‘go-on’ gesture.

”I’ve been following your nemesis on Insta”

”I don’t have a nemesis, Phichit.”

”Arch-rival, sworn enemy, whatever. Ivan Ilyich, from last year.”

”Nikiforov.”

”Yeah sure, Rimsky-Korsakov, whatever.” Phichit munched a cracker. “He messaged me. Wanted to know if we were going to Iowa.”

Yuuri groaned. “What did you say?”

”That we’re going, of course, and that we’d kick their collective asses back to California.”

Yuuri wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

”Anyway, turns out they’re staying at the same hotel. They wanted to know when we were arriving and said we should get dinner.”

”Phichit, no.”

”Phichit, yes. I know you can’t stand the guy, but everyone else actually likes to meet other players. We’ll just make sure you sit at opposite ends of the table, and you can just awkwardly ignore him until it is time to crush them, see them driven before us and hear the lamentations of their etc, etc.”

Phichit was right. It wasn’t fair for everyone else to miss out on something because Yuuri was uncomfortable. It also wouldn’t be right for him to skip out on his teammates again. He’d done that last year, and all he’d achieved was a sleepless night with the runaway train of his worries and guilt. Maybe a distraction would be preferable. Maybe it would be fun. Maybe Yuuri would discover that he was not a social hazardous waste zone. Maybe when Yuuri woke up the next day, a chorus of angels would wake him up with the sound of theremins and teeth made of sunshine.

Anything could happen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team arrives in Iowa and prepares for the competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter of the Judo AU. We're in the homestretch. Next update: the competition!

The team arrived in Ames in much higher spirits than they’d been in the previous year. They’d taken the drive fairly easy, stopping overnight in Fort Smith and arriving in Ames with enough time to freshen up and relax a bit before dinner. 

The area around campus felt familiar, with the university sprawling across the small town the way most big state schools tended to do. While the flatness of the landscape felt familiar, the bare trees and biting wind were a novelty. Yuuri, for one, wished he had brought a better coat. 

Celestino-sensei excused himself from dinner. Yuuri couldn’t exactly blame him if he’d had enough of their antics. Phichit and Leo had serenaded him to Paradise by the Dashboard lights on the way into town. If Yuuri was honest, he was a little bit envious. A night of Food Network and room service sounded pretty good. Yuuri was glad that he’d already mentally committed himself to being sociable for the evening. It was easier to handle if he’d had a chance to prepare himself for it. 

In the room, Yuuri lost the coin flip for the first shower, so he settled himself on the bed and started flipping through channels. By the time Phichit was done, he’d gotten oddly invested in a reality show about blacksmiths. 

“You’re up.” 

“Hang on, I just want to see them test this sword.” 

Phichit climbed onto the bed beside him. “Are those pigs? Is he gonna - oh no…” Phichit’s eyes widened as the host hefted the claymore. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri laughed as he tossed over the remote and headed for the shower. 

Yuuri took his time washing off the car trip grime and luxuriating in the seemingly limitless hot water that was one of the best things about staying in hotels. He felt calm, confident and wondered how long that would last. Maybe there was something to be said for a humiliating failure after all. These people had already seen him eat shit in competition, get wasted at a party and then puke on the shoes of a champion. He had nowhere to go but up. 

Or so he thought, until he started to get dressed and realized that he hadn’t packed his favorite jeans after all. Instead the ones in his bag were the skinny jeans that he’d bought but never worn because they were, well, skinny. As advertised. He didn’t know why he had expected anything else. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. 

Phichit put that hopeful thought to rest with a loud wolf whistle as Yuuri stepped out of the bathroom. 

“Dayum, Yuuri. How long have you been hiding that glorious cake from me? And I thought we were friends.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Sure. But first I need you to do a little spin for me.” He twirled his finger. 

“Why do I even know you?” Yuuri sat at the foot of the bed. “I should see if anyone has pants I can borrow.” 

Phichit jerked upright. “You will do no such thing!” Phichit came to sit beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulders and giving him a squeeze that was probably supposed to be supportive. “I didn’t mean to make you feel weird. I’m just not used to seeing you in clothes that fit. You look really good.” 

“I look like someone put too much filling in a sausage.” 

“You look amazing. Sexy, even, which I know you’ll feel weird about me saying, but it’s true, so tough titties.” 

“Thanks, I think. It’s not like anyone will be looking, anyway.” 

“Right. Everyone is paying much more attention to themselves than they are to you. As long as you don’t call attention to it, odds are good that no one will even notice.” 

“Ugh, you’re right. I hate it when you’re right.” 

“More importantly, I’m hungry.” Phichit grabbed the key card from the bedside table. “Let’s go eat.” 

They stopped by Leo and Otabek’s room so they could trek down to the conference center’s restaurant together. The Collegiate Judo Association had managed to get a block of rooms at a pretty good discount, probably aided by the fact that March wasn’t a particularly popular time for conferences in Iowa. It made it convenient: shuttles to the campus, a coffee shop in the lobby, and most of the other out of town teams all staying on the same couple of floors. 

It wasn’t hard to find the group in the restaurant. The hostess took one look at them and pointed to the back of the dining room where a bunch of tables had been pushed together. Yuuri made a conscious effort not to grit his teeth when he spotted Victor’s stupid silvery hair and stupid symmetrical face. Of course, that was when Victor spotted them with his stupid blue eyes and waved them over. 

There was a bustle of shifting chairs and introductions as the Louisiana team found seats. He recognized some of the faces from last year: Victor, of course, but also the curly-haired blond guy who had come in second, a small guy with brown hair that he’d seen Leo talking with, and worst of all, the other Yuri, who probably had a personality beyond just hating Yuuri, but based on the way he was glaring at him now, it seemed unlikely. Yuuri found himself wedged in between the blond guy and Phichit, trying to keep his elbows from intruding too far into either man’s personal space. 

Of course, neither of them had any such qualms, promptly leaning across Yuuri to shake hands and introduce each other. On the bright side, this meant that Yuuri could passively enjoy the fruits of their conversation without having to contribute too much. He learned that his new acquaintance was Chris, a senior at Iowa State, majoring in marketing. Yuuri settled in to read the menu, feeling pleasantly overlooked. 

He should have known it was too good to last. Before he could make up his mind between a tenderloin (whatever that was) and a burger, Chris was leaning back in his seat, his lanky frame making it tricky to offer a hand in their cramped quarters. 

“And you are?” 

“Me?” Yuuri looked up frantically and awkwardly accepted the proffered hand. “Yuuri, also from Louisiana. Senior. History.” He hoped that would be enough to satisfy everyone. 

Chris propped his chin on his hand. “It’s nice to see you feeling better, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri sighed. “I don’t guess I’ll be living that down any time soon, will I?’ 

“Sorry, darling, not until someone else does something more exciting.” 

Yuuri hadn’t been called ‘darling’ in years. It’s a little bit disconcerting because on the one hand it felt flirtatious but on the other, the last person who had called him ‘darling’ was his great aunt. 

In a way, it was nice to have gotten it out of the way. It meant that Yuuri didn’t have to spend the entire dinner wondering when someone would bring it up. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to laugh about it, but everyone else really did seem to view it as a funny story and not some sort of symptoms of gross moral degeneracy. While drunken shenanigans seemed to be fair game for friendly mockery, no one brought up last year’s results. Yuuri didn’t know what he had expected. Phichit’s words from earlier came to mind. Maybe everyone else really wasn’t fixated on Yuuri’s failings. In fact, odds were good that no one else even remembered how well or poorly he had done the previous year. It was surprising how freeing ‘it’s not always about _you_ ,’ could be as a philosophy. 

With that, he found himself actually starting to enjoy himself. “So, Chris, you’re from here. What the heck is a tenderloin?” 

“A neighborhood in San Francisco,” piped up a pretty redhead from across the table. 

“That, too,” Chris said before replying to Yuuri. “It’s a fried pork cutlet. A bit like a wiener schnitzel. I guess it is a midwestern thing.” 

“Oh, like tonkatsu. Cool.” Yuuri set down his menu, mind made up. 

“Figures,” muttered the other Yuri, with a roll of his eyes. 

“Ignore him,” advised the redhead. “He’s bad at sharing.” 

“Shut up, you creep.” 

She ignored him and Yuuri barely managed to squash his grin at the way the other Yuri seethed as her dismissal. “I’m Mila. It’s cool that you guys decided to come out.” 

“It was nice of y’all to invite us,” Phichit replied, with a salute to Victor at the far end of the table. Yuuri was feeling generous, so he glanced up with a small smile in Victor’s direction. Victor looked startled, but gave him a nod. 

“So, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m _starving_. Who wants to split an appetizer?” 

“So, that was fun, right?” Phichit asked as they wandered back to their room. They had decided to take the long way, exploring the long halls of the mostly empty conference center. “Ooh, game room!” He tried the door. “Bummer.” 

They continued down the hall. The carpet was the usual too loud pattern. Yuuri made the mistake of watching it unfold beneath his feet and looked away quickly before he could seasick. “Yeah, it was nice.” 

“You sound surprised.” 

“I am, a little.” He stopped and looked out the window at the end of the hall. The moon was almost full. “I feel silly, to be honest.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He put his hands in his pockets and shivered a little. “I don’t know why I always expect everyone to be super competitive jerks.” 

“Could it be because, don’t get mad at me, you’re kind of a competitive jerk?” 

Yuuri snorted. “I guess that could have something to do with it.” He paused. “Am I really a jerk?” 

“Only a little bit. Most of us know better. You’ve been pretty intense about this stuff.” 

Yuuri had never really thought of himself that way. It didn’t really match the way he felt. The way he felt was mostly worried and embarrassed. It hurt a little bit, like, maybe Yuuri had been missing out on some good times and worse, on some good friends. It was, to put it mildly, a bummer. 

Phichit could tell, “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean it like that.” Mercifully, he decided not to say anything else. 

Yuuri cleared his throat and turned back from the window. “I guess we should crash, huh?” He forced a smile. “Big day tomorrow, and all that.” 

“I guess so. You’ve been working hard. How are you feeling?” 

“Better,” he said. It was true. “It helps that my dog didn’t die this year.” He also wasn’t the only one competing. “How about you?” 

“I’m stoked. I’m really glad you dragged me to that BJJ demonstration.” Phichit shrugged. “Mostly just looking forward to seeing if I do better than last year.” 

“Well, you know what I always say: winning doesn’t mean beating the other guy. Winning means doing better than you’ve ever done before.” 

Phichit grinned. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.” 

“I guess I forgot about it for a while.” Maybe he was starting to believe it again. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally competition day! The penultimate chapter of the Judo AU based on a dream.

For all of his newfound positivity, Yuuri didn’t fall asleep until around four a.m. Instead he stared at the ceiling of the hotel room, counting his breaths between each blink of the little red light in the smoke detector. Maybe he would finally figure out how tired he had to be before he couldn’t be anxious.

He’d had the best intentions to get up with plenty of time before they had to get to the athletic center. Instead, he dozed off again after Phichit’s third attempt to rouse him for breakfast. Instead of waffles at the hotel’s breakfast, Yuuri got a rushed shower and one of the Rx Bars that always lived in Celestino-sensei’s bag. At least he was able to grab a coffee on his way through the lobby. 

It was a frigid March morning that snapped him awake and took Yuuri’s breath away as he skidded across the parking lot. The sweatshirt that was more than enough for most of the winter in Louisiana was woefully inadequate for early spring in Iowa. The freezing fog was rapidly turning into freezing rain. Yuuri couldn’t look away from the way that Celestino-sensei’s knuckles went white as he clutched the steering wheel. 

By contrast, the athletic center felt humid and almost too warm. The competition was held in a huge gymnasium, mats laid over the basketball courts. Yuuri could hear the heaters in the corners of the ceiling humming as the competitors claimed mat space for stretching and warmups before it was time to line up and bow in, white noise rising behind the national anthem and the opening remarks.

The novice division competed first. Yuuri and Phichit stayed close, shouting encouragement at their teammates. Yuuri kept an eye out for the other angrier Yuri, but didn’t spot him. He saw the redhead from dinner, though, staying low and ferocious as she won her match to cheers from the San Jose team. Yuuri made the mistake of catching Victor’s eye. He’d been caught looking, so why make it weird? He lifted his hand and hoped it looked like a normal sort of a wave. 

“Leo’s up!” Phichit tugged at Yuuri’s sleeve. When he turned back, Victor was talking to another competitor.

Leo won that match and the next, ultimately placing fourth in his class. Otabek also had a good day, coming in second.

After the awards ceremony, they went out in search of lunch. The weather had shifted from freezing rain to something that was not quite snow, but rather some sort of weird little ice pellet that Yuuri, for one, had not encountered before. Fortunately, it was a short walk to a chain sandwich shop. Less fortunately, it seemed like most of the athletes had had the same idea. Perhaps it should have been a bigger surprise when Yuuri found himself standing right in front of the reigning NCJA champion in the 90 kg weight class. 

“Hello, again.”

“Hey,” Yuuri replied. He grimaced. It would be weird if he didn’t say anything else, wouldn’t it? He should probably say something else. “How are you?”

“I’m alright. Gross weather, right?”

“Yeah.” Weather. Yuuri could talk about the weather, even with Victor’s teammates standing behind him, sneaking looks at him while pretending they were studying the menu. “We’re not exactly used to frozen things falling from the sky.”

Victor smirked, “I bet. We don’t get much of that in Cali, either.”

“Oh, I guess not. Huh.” 

“Looking forward to this afternoon?” Victor asked.

“I wouldn’t be.” Angry Yuri piped up from behind Victor. He had put on a few inches since the previous year, now that Yuuri saw him standing up, but he didn’t seem to have mellowed out at all. He looked miserable, swathed in a sweatshirt and visibly shivering next to Mila.

“Oh?” Yuuri replied. “What about you? I didn’t see you out there this morning, are you competing in the standard division this year?”

“Yeah.” It was probably hard to look threatening when your teeth were chattering. “You scared?”

“Of?”

“Losing, humiliating yourself again? Getting your fat ass thrown all over the mat?”

“Rude, much,” Mila said, shoving at Yuri’s shoulder.

It was nice to be defended, but… “It’s okay. I don’t do this many squats just to be ashamed of my ass.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m given to understand that some people are into it.”

“Damn right,” Leo muttered behind him, which was to be expected. His teammates were supportive to a fault. Unexpected, however, was Victor’s vigorous nod. 

“Whatever, loser. You’re holding up the line,” Angry Yuri snapped before Yuuri could overthink that response.

“You know, I’ve decided that there are definitely worse things to be.” He turned away to place his order. He caught Victor’s eye again as he stepped away from the counter. “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to kick your ass later.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”  
Back outside, Phichit grabbed Yuuri's elbow, “Okay, what is going on? Is Nikiforov _flirting_ with you? Are you flirting with him?”

“What? No. What?” Yuuri shook his head. “No. I’m - I thought I was trash talking. Right?”

“I don’t know,” Otabek said. “It sort of sounds like you want to hold him down and well, you know.”

“I do!” Yuuri spluttered. “I mean, of course, in judo, you know.”

“Right.”

“I hate you guys so much.”

Embarrassment was a good distraction for about half of the walk back to campus, but as soon as they were back in sight of the athletic center, Yuuri’s nerves made an appearance. He was glad that he’d only eaten half of his sandwich. He walked laps around the perimeter of the gymnasium for a while, but as the room started to fill back up, he felt like he was attracting too much attention, so he found himself a spot on the bleachers, put in his earbuds, and turned Cygnus X-1 _all_ the way up. 

The funny thing about time was that it just kept going, no matter how much he dreaded or looked forward to something. He’d spent the last year anticipating this event, and now that it was here, it felt, already, like it was almost over. No more time for preparation, no chance of a do-over. ‘One shot, do not miss your chance to flow.’ He would be graduating in a few months and, yes, there would probably be other competitions, but if he ever had a shot at this one, it was now.

Also, what on earth was wrong with Yuuri’s brain today? Eminem? Really?

Just like that, it was time. He watched his competitors, trying to make note of anything that might be useful later while he taped his fingers and toes. This guy stayed low, very defensive; be prepared for a long match. That guy was really good on the ground; try to throw him early. Watch out for a sacrifice technique from him…

Before he knew it, he was changing into his blue gi, and passing his glasses to Clelestino-sensei for safekeeping, then he was standing at the edge of the mat for his first match. He bounced in place and shook out his ankles, trying to shed some of the nervous energy before he bowed and stepped onto the mat. He and his opponent bowed to each other.

“Hajime.”

His first opponent was no slouch. He came straight in, none of the usual dancing around that most matches began with, grabbed Yuuri’s sleeve and pulled. Perhaps he was a bit nervous, too, because he tried to muscle Yuuri into the throw while Yuuri still had his balance. It was enough to make Yuuri stumble a bit, skipping out of reach of his legs. The Ref called ‘Matte,’ and they separated. This time, Yuuri attacked. He got a grip on the other guy’s lapel and a hold on the sleeve near his elbow and he didn’t give it up. His opponent was moving above him, trying for Yuuri’s belt. Yuuri didn’t feel like letting that happen. He moved in quick, hip to hip with his opponent. He knew he had the throw when he felt the other judoka come up on his toes. He swung his leg between the other guy’s thighs and pulled him over his hip, following him down and keeping control of the arm. Uchi mata had always been one of his favorite techniques.

“Ippon!”

Yuuri could hear Phichit yelling from the sidelines. He stood up, patting his opponent on the shoulder. After a moment to fix their clothes, they bowed and stepped forward to shake hands. 

“Nice job, man.”

The other guy shook his head with a chuckle, “You too.”

Yuuri couldn’t have asked for a better way to start a competition. He knew the rest of the day would be neither so quick, nor so satisfying, but it sure felt good to start off that way.

He was proven right.

The rest of the day could be generously described as painful. There were matches that were long painful slogs against defensive opponents, guys he couldn’t get off-balance no matter what he tried. There was another match that he won easily, and another he pulled out by the skin of his teeth. He had mat-burn on one cheekbone and a jammed finger. 

But he hadn’t lost.

Somehow he kept winning, even against the West Point guy who had mopped the mat with him the previous year. After an eternity that felt like seconds, was there, bowing his way onto the mat for his final match. Nikiforov (he would get to be Victor again once Yuuri kicked his ass) was mostly a blur, but Yuuri could picture the flash of those Disney Prince blue eyes and his smug little half grin. Yuuri’s lips tried to quirk in response but he held it back. Plenty of time for that later. 

Meanwhile, he was finally where he had worked to be for a year. Win or lose, this was a triumph for him. Probably it had always been that way, but it was sure easier to see it now. It was daunting, not so much the match itself, but the knowledge that it would be over soon, and that was true not just of this match, of this competition, but of this semester, this year, this whole college journey. 

Heavy.

Also, thoughts that were for later. Right now, he had to focus on the fact that Victor was bouncing around him, still high energy after the day. He got a grip on Yuuri’s right sleeve, just as Yuuri managed to grab his lapel. It didn’t get either of them anywhere, other than bent over at the waist, each trying to shake the other’s grip as they tried to get a foot in position for a throw. There’s heads were close enough that Yuuri got a whiff of menthol whenever Victor’s exhaled. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, almost bearing each other to the ground.

“Matte!”

They straightened and returned to the center of the mat, fixing their belts. When they resumed, it was more of the same. At first. Then something happened, Yuuri wasn’t sure what, and they broke apart. Victor attacked, and they were back in the clinch, but this time Victor managed to spin out of Yuuri’s grip and throw him. He didn’t have control, though, and Yuuri managed to twist around to land on his knees. 

The ref paused the match and Yuuri stood, flexing his neck. He’d be feeling that tomorrow.

They resumed and were right back to fighting for any scrap of off-balance they could manage. Yuuri managed to keep his distance a little bit more, just rying to feel where Victor’s weight was, watching his feet on the match, waiting for a lifted toe to signal a shift in his balance. He saw an opening and went for it, turning toward Victor’s body, wrapped up in his arm as Victor refused to relinquish his grip on Yuuri’s lapel. That was fine, though, because Yuuri was already sweeping his leg to the outside of Victor’s, and following him to the mat. Victor came down on his side, and Yuuri dimly registered the ref calling Waza-ari as he struggled to get Victor into some sort of hold. 

His Kesa gatame lasted about half a second, before Victor wriggled his way out of it and turned the tables on Yuuri, trying to pin him face-down to the mat.

“Matte!”

They stood. Yuuri was getting a cramp in his thigh. Victor seemed more ruffled than Yuuri had yet seen him, his chest heaving as he quickly tried to fix his gi. Then they were back at it. Victor’s breath loud in his ears as they fought for any advantage they could. One would try to move in every so often, trying to get a foot around an ankle, trying to get into position for a throw, but to no avail. Yuuri could tell that Victor was getting tired. His movements had become just a little bit unconvincing. Sometimes, it felt like he was holding onto Yuuri’s sleeves for support, rather than trying to pull him down. Yuuri feinted forward, like he was going to try for Uchi mata, then dropped back, using his left instep to throw Victor over his head as he went down. He heard Victor’s short huff of surprise as he went over. Yuuri followed him over into a hold, almost surprised when he heard the ref.

“Ippon!”

He had done it. Jumped to his feet, and pumped his fist in the air. His team was screaming on the sidelines, their familiar blurs jumping up and down. Yuuri’s jacket had come completely untucked, soft, pink belly on display for the whole gymnasium, and he was probably going to lose a toenail that had snagged in Victor’s pants during that last throw, but he had never cared less. 

He caught his breath and tucked in his shirt, then faced Victor. They bowed, and then stepped forward to shake hands. Yuuri was surprised to see that Victor was grinning, maybe a little ruefully, as he clasped Yuuri’s hand and congratulated him, pulling him into a one armed hug.

Yuuri had won. 

Now what?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the Judo AU.

“So, has Chris talked to you yet?” 

Yuuri had survived the ever-awkward award ceremony and podium photo extravaganza and was aimlessly milling around before the start of the kata competition, trying to make polite conversation with the other competitors when Victor had tugged at his sleeve. 

“Uh, no, why?” He looked down at Victor’s hand. There was a blood blister on his middle finger. Yuuri felt a strange little wash of sadness that he wasn’t sporting sparkly nails this year. 

“Party.” 

Yuuri groaned. “I’ll tell my team, but I don’t think I should come.” 

“Why on earth not? What better way to celebrate your victory than with keg stands? Congratulations, again. Really.” 

“Uh thanks.” Yuuri’s cheeks were getting a little bit hot. “I mean, it’s just, I think my record speaks for itself when it comes to parties.” 

Victor rocked back on his heels, his thumbs tucked into his belt. “Don’t worry about it, Yuuri, it was a good excuse to go shoe-shopping.”

“Oh god.” 

“Come on...You don’t want to hurt Chris’s feelings. He’s very sensitive.” 

Yuuri glanced over. “Chris had competed in the 100 kg division this year and was still posing with his medal, miming taking a bite out of it. “I’m sure.” He looked at Victor again. He had been nothing but relentlessly nice to Yuuri, despite Yuuri’s standoffishness and his likely one-sided rivalry. “Okay. I’ll come.” 

“Yay!” He grinned and offered Yuuri another handshake. “See you later, then,” he nodded over Yuuri’s shoulder to where Phichit was fast approaching, his third place medal gleaming around his neck. 

“Medal selfie!” he exclaimed as he slung an arm around Yuuri’s neck and lifted his camera. Yuuri waved in Victor’s general direction as Phichit snapped the picture. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“Nah, we’ll catch up later.” 

“Cool. Wait. Later?” 

“We’ve been invited to a party.” 

“And you’re volunteering this information, and I don’t have to drag it out of you? Or drag you there?” Phichit slapped his hands to his cheeks. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a very sociable person.” 

“Sure, Jan.” 

After the kata competition and a celebratory dinner of barbeque, Celestino-sensei had retired to his room with clear instructions to be at the front desk, packed and ready to check out at no later than 9:00 a.m. the next morning and that, until then, he didn’t want to see or hear from any of them for anything less compelling than a dismemberment. 

This time, Yuuri insisted on a game of roshambo for the shower and when Phichit won, he insisted on 2 out of 3. Phichit still won the first shower. Yuuri occupied himself with a King of the Hill re-run and picked at the sticky tape remnants on his fingers. He knew he should ice his finger, but that sounded like too much effort, so he swallowed a couple of ibuprofen and promised himself he’d do it later. 

Eventually Phichit ceded the bathroom to Yuuri. The mirror was completely fogged, and Yuuri had forgotten all about the mat burn until the hot water hit it. He hissed and scrambled to turn down the heat. It didn’t take long for it to feel good, though, as the hot water sliced through the sweat and funkiness of the day. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten his Tiger Balm. 

When he finally emerged, it took him a moment to register what he was seeing. 

“What are you wearing?” 

“Zubaz. It’s a classic look.” He straightened the cuff of the windowpane plaid blazer that he had decided to pair with the tiger striped pants. 

“I thought you were supposed to be the fashionable one.” 

“You can’t tell me that this is not a whole-ass look.” 

“Oh, it’s a look, all right.” 

“Do you _want_ my commentary on your outfits?” 

“I was not under the impression that you were withholding your thoughts,” Yuuri replied as he pulled on his jeans and wished again that he’d brought a warmer coat. 

“Car will be here in fifteen minutes. You almost ready?” 

“Yup, I’m good.” 

The weather had not gone away, but the freezing rain and weird ice pellets had given way to legitimate snow, which was an aesthetic improvement, to say the least. 

Chris’s place was very warm after the snow but, other than that, a lot like every other college house he had been to, and the party, still getting going, was a lot like every other college party that he had been to, which a sink full of ice and beers, mysterious fruit-flavored shots, and a keg on the back porch. Someone’s phone was in a dock in the kitchen, alternating Lana del Rey with the Outkast. Yuuri wondered who was in charge of the music as he selected a store-brand seltzer from the sink, determined to avoid a repeat of last year. If he just alternated beer with water all night and refused to sample any of the syrupy shots he could finish the night sober-ish and well-hydrated. Or that was the plan, anyway. 

Implementing it was a bit more of a challenge, especially when Chris sidled up beside him with a tray of those dangerous looking shots and a hand that was inclined to rest itself just below the small of Yuuri’s back. Yuuri accepted a shot out of mere self-preservation and let Chris introduce him to the motley crew of ISU teammates and roomies. Chris was, it transpired, a fifth-year senior, majoring in linguistics (this news was delivered with a pointed licking of the lips and a wink). It hadn’t taken Yuuri long to notice that Chris’s flirting was more of a dirty bomb than a guided missile: its intent more to sow chaos than a matter of strategy. 

Yuuri was chatting with or, more accurately, listening to Phichit chat with a freckle-faced freshman. The conversation had turned toward movie musicals and Yuuri found himself tuning out. It was warm in the house, and Yuuri was getting sleepy. 

A blast of cold air from the front door announced another group. The San Jose team stood by the entry, shaking snow out of their hair and wiping their shoes. The redhead, Mila, laughed as Victor tried to comb the flakes from her curly hair. 

Angry Yuri just stomped into the room, and headed for the kitchen. Yuuri lifted an eyebrow at Victor. 

“He came in _third_ ,” Victor whispered dramatically. His cheeks were a tiny bit pink, and Yuuri wondered if the San Jose team had pre-partied. 

“Shut up!” 

“Um, congratulations?” Yuuri called. 

“Fuck you!” 

“Ah.” Yuuri sipped the last of his seltzer. “I’m guessing he’s not happy with the result?” 

“You could say that.” 

“Gotcha. I’ll definitely not bring it up.” 

“Oh no, you _definitely_ should.” Victor grinned a little bit wickedly. “Sportsmanship is not his strong suit.” He looked around. “Drinks in the kitchen?” 

“Yup.” 

Victor patted him on the shoulder and Yuuri went back to pretending that he had opinions about Hairspray. 

Things got spicy a couple of hours into the party. It had been long enough that everyone who wanted to get wasted had made good progress on getting there. The process had been accelerated by the fact that almost everyone was still tired, beat up, and mildly dehydrated. By comparison, last year’s party at San Jose had been classy and sedate. Eventually, the party spilled into the back yard where, in defiance of the snow, someone had contrived a firepit made from an old steel wheel. A small crowd had gathered around it, huddled shoulder to shoulder to absorb the heat while they sipped their beers. 

Across the alley was the ΙΗΠ fraternity house and they were partying, too. Yuuri didn’t know exactly what happened, although maybe it wasn’t that mysterious based on his limited experience with the younger, angrier Yuri. All he knew was that there was suddenly shouting from the alley and flames rising from the fraternity’s dumpster. 

“Oh shit.” 

“What the fuck is he doing?” 

“Someone’s gonna call the cops.” 

The crowd around the fire stood there staring. Fortunately they had some fast thinkers in their midst. Otabek and Christophe trundled out of the house, carrying a garbage can of water which they tipped onto the fire. 

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” Yuri emerged from the cloud of steam and got in Otabek’s face. “That’s _my_ dumpster fire, you fuckers.” 

While Otabek and Chris tried to explain that fire equals cops and cops equal no more party at the least and a citation for underage drinking at most. It didn’t seem to be sinking in, though, as Yuri’s shouting only escalated. 

It was Leo who first spotted the lights. He slapped at Yuuri’s elbow. “Fuck. Cops.” Leo was twenty. So was Otabek. They both fumbled their beers into Yuuri and Phichit’s hands and booked it down the alley away from the lights. 

Phichit and Yuuri stood there for a stunned second. “See you back at the hotel?” 

“Yup,” Yuuri replied, and they split. 

Yuuri darted toward the front of the house, slipping on snowy patches. At the corner of the front porch, he ran straight into VIctor. 

“Whoa, what?” 

“Cops. Time to go.” 

“Oh, okay. Come on, then.” 

He held out his hand. Yuuri grabbed it and dragged him down the block. At the end of the street, they ducked through the parking lot of a small apartment building. The parking lot backed up onto a narrow band of woods. They snuck past what was apparently a laundry room, based on the warm puff of soapy-smelling steam emanating from a vent, and slipped down a snowy slope to find themselves at the edge of a creek, running quietly over chunks of concrete and discarded bottles of laundry detergent. 

“Oh, well, then.” Victor stopped and put his hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah. I guess we’re okay now, though.” 

“I would think so. I’m pretty sure you’re of legal drinking age, anyway.” 

“Right. I guess I got caught up in the moment. What’s your excuse?” 

“This sounded like more fun than what I was doing.” 

They started to pick their way back up the slope. “Which was?” 

“Moping on the front porch.” 

Yuuri stopped and looked at him. 

“Sorry, ignore me. I’m drunk.” They stepped over the curb. “So, I guess it’s time to go back to the hotel, huh?” He pulled out his phone, and Yuuri caught a glimpse of his face in the light of the screen. 

“Or we could, I don’t know, take a walk first. You know, see the snow? Neither of us get much of it back home.” 

Victor smiled, just a little. “Yeah?” 

“Sure. Just, let me text my friends.” 

“I should probably check on Chris.” 

As it turned out, Chris was fine. The police had paid a visit to the fraternity house whose party was apparently even rowdier from the front than it had seemed from the back. It may not even have been Yuri’s dumpster fire that had brought them out. 

Meanwhile, Yuuri’s teammates were meeting up to share a ride back to the hotel. 

“No, no, don’t wait for me... I’m gonna walk around for a while...Uh, no...I actually ran in Victor...Yes mom...I hate you...okay, yeah yeah...love you too.” 

He ended the call. 

“All good?” Victor asked. 

“Yup. So, which way?” 

“Um, I think I saw a bridge over,” Victor looked around, “there,” he pointed. “Should we see where it goes?” 

It was as good an idea as any, so they returned to the road and found a little foot path that led in the direction of the creek. From the bridge, you couldn’t see the trash in the creek. The snow had let up, but it had stuck to the branches of the trees and, even as he shivered, Yuuri had to admit that it was sort of magical. 

Across the creek they found that the trail continued through a small patch of woods. 

They walked in silence for a while, Yuuri wondering whether he should try to start a conversation and if so, what he should say. Victor didn’t seem inclined to solve the problem for him. 

“Can I ask you something?” Yuuri hadn’t really made the conscious decision to say anything. He fought the urge to stuff it back in. 

“Of course.” 

“Why did you talk to me?” 

“When?” 

“Last year, this year, ever?” Yuuri pulled his hands into his sleeves and crossed his arms around his ribs. It was getting colder. “I don’t feel like I’ve been very nice to you.” 

“Really? I didn’t notice that.” Victor looked up. The clouds had blown away, leaving the sky clear and bright with stars. He looked at Yuuri and gave him a little nudge with his elbow. “Is it that big a mystery? I saw a cute guy in the bleachers and he was sitting by himself, so I thought, ‘why not?’’ 

“Oh.” 

“I felt like shit when I realized you were there to compete. I guess I thought maybe you would be bored or something. I guess I should have left you alone.”

“Ah, about that. I’m sorry, I was pretty pissed off that day.” 

“It’s okay, no one likes losing.” 

“It wasn’t that, or, I mean, it wasn’t just that. I’m usually more gracious about it.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about this, but for some reason it felt like maybe Victor wouldn’t mind. “I had a lot of stuff going on. And then my dog had just died.” 

“Oh, puppy…” Victor breathed. “No wonder.” 

Yuuri snorted. “No wonder I got wasted and puked on your shoes?” 

“I guess? I would have been a complete wreck.” They had reached the edge of the woods. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what? Being nice to me?” 

“For trying to flirt with you while you probably just wanted to be left alone.” He pointed to the right and lifted an eyebrow. 

Yuuri nodded and turned. Is that what had been going on? Phichit would never let him hear the end of this. “Ah, that’s okay. I don’t mind.” 

“Really?” Victor grinned broadly, his teeth glinting in the streetlight. One of his bottom teeth was just a little bit crooked. “I won’t hold back, then.” 

Cold as it was, Yuuri felt his cheeks getting hot. He uncrossed one of his arms and reached for Victor’s hand. “Me either.” 

Victor squeezed Yuuri’s fingers. “You’re freezing! Come on.” He tugged Yuuri down the street toward the bright lights of a commercial district. 

It was late and almost everything had closed. The area felt deserted other than the damp sounds of occasional cars on the main street and the grinding drag of a snow plow clearing a road somewhere out of sight. Their steps crunched across the undisturbed snow of a bank’s drive-through as they headed toward the brightly illuminated parking lot of the only business that was still open: a 24 hour Walmart Supercenter. 

The lot had been churned to slush by the traffic and both of their shoes were squelching by the time they got to the door. 

“Victor, what are we doing?” 

“Well, we’re cold, but I don’t think we’re quite ready to call it a night, do you?” 

Despite the yawn that was lingering just at the back of his throat, Yuuri agreed. 

They wandered inside. The Walmart in Ames was virtually identical to the Walmart in Baton Rouge but mirrored, and full of Iowa State merch instead of LSU Tigers. 

This late, there was no greeter on duty, which was a relief to Yuuri. He had expected them to just wander around, but Victor grabbed a basket and set off like a man on a mission. Yuuri trailed along after him. 

“So, um, are you okay?” 

“Of course! Here, try this on.” Victor handed Yuuri a coat from a discount rack. 

Yuuri obliged. “Before. You said you were just moping on the porch. So...are you okay?” 

Victor’s smile slipped a little as he met Yuuri’s eyes. “I was being silly.” He zipped the coat up to Yuuri’s chin and nodded approvingly, his hand lingering near his collar. “You see, I was at this party, and there was this guy there, and I just couldn’t figure him out. Sometimes I think he can’t stand me, and sometimes I think there’s something there.” 

Yuuri caught his breath to say something, but Victor went on before Yuuri could conjure the right words. 

“I was being a little dramatic. It’s a flaw. So I was on the porch waiting. I figured that if he didn’t actually hate me, then maybe he would come find me.” His smile softened just a little. “I guess he did.” 

“Wow.” It _was_ dramatic, and maybe a little bit silly, but it still felt like something soft and warm had curled up in the center of Yuuri’s chest. “I’m sorry I interrupted, then.” 

“Yuuri!” 

“Can I take this off now? It’s getting hot.” 

“Yeah. You should buy it, though. It’s a good deal and might be nice not to freeze on the ride back home.” 

Yuuri didn’t even look at the price tag before he folded the coat over his forearm. He didn’t want to think too much about what might come next, but he had a hunch that he might want to remember this. A coat was as good a souvenir as any and if he was wrong, well, he probably needed a coat anyway. 

From there, they wandered the aisles, Victor picking things here and there, toothpaste, a box of maple creme cookies. Mostly, though, they talked: their classes, their hobbies, their plans for after graduation. 

“I don’t know. The plan was law school, but I don’t… I don’t think that’s what I want anymore. What about you?” 

Yuuri shrugged. “No idea. Try to find a job, I guess. I’m not really a school person, so I don’t see myself heading for grad school or anything. My parents say not to worry about it, I guess they trust me to figure it out.” 

“That sounds nice,” Victor murmured, and Yuuri’s heart hurt just a little bit at how sad he sounded. 

They were near the makeup, lots of little boxes and bottles of bright colors and soft creams. He picked up a little bottle of sparkly blue nail polish and held it up to the light. 

“That’s pretty,” Victor commented. 

“Let me get it for you. I missed your sparkles this year.” 

“I’ll work on that. Next time you see me, I’ll be like a human disco ball.” He fell silent then, and looked quickly at Yuuri. “Ah sorry. I guess we don’t know when, _if_ that might be, do we?” 

“And Baton Rouge isn’t exactly close to San Jose.” 

“I hear there’s this newfangled invention, it’s called the telephone. Maybe we could give that a try? If you wanted to?” 

“I’d like that. I’ve also heard of people, hear me out, writing things on paper and mailing them to each other. It sounds crazy, I know.” Yuuri tried to force a smile. If Victor’s face was any indication, it wasn’t very convincing. 

“This sucks.” 

“Yeah.” 

They made their purchases and waited for their ride in silence, but Yuuri didn’t let go of Victor’s hand. In the back seat of the car, he almost fell asleep on Victor’s shoulder. Back at the hotel, the fluorescent lights of the elevator felt far too bright. 

“I guess this is it. Will I see you in the morning?” 

Victor grimaced. “Only if you plan to get up in three hours. We’re leaving at 6:00.” 

“Oh, you poor thing.” 

He laughed. “It’s okay. Yakov-sensei won’t let anyone else drive, and I’ve got good headphones.” 

“I’m sorry.” Yuuri tried, but failed to suppress his yawn. “Can I give you a hug, at least?” 

“I’d like that.” 

Yuuri let himself be folded into Victor’s arms, all warm and secure. “I feel like I just found you,” he whispered into Victor’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Victor said, his voice tickling Yuuri’s ear. “Maybe, after graduation? We’ll figure it out.” He squeezed Yuuri tight, and pressed a kiss to the skin just below his ear. 

They stood like that for a long time. 

Yuuri had tried to memorize the way it felt to be held like this, tried to hold the warmth in his bones, in his heart, in his guts. He wore his new coat all the way home, hoping to retain the warmth a little bit longer. It seemed like he should freeze to death as the distance stretched between them. 

Then he got the first text, a dog at a rest area picnic table, Victor’s fingernails, half-painted in sparkly blue, the back of angry Yuri’s head zonked out on Mila’s shoulder in the van. 

Back in Baton Rouge, he called his parents to check in and let them congratulate him on his win and regale him with stories about their new rescue pug. When he emerged from his room, Leo passed him a controller. “Phichit says you can be Peach this time.” 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to keep warm after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> kata - forms. These are sort of the choreographed versions of techniques in martial arts. They can be practiced alone or with a partner (in the case of Judo). The NCJA tournament includes competition in both Nage no Kata (throwing techniques) and Kagame no Kata (grappling techniques). Mixed gender teams are permitted, so Sara and Phichit working together is not me idealizing things (although I should note that I have decided that there aren't separate men's and women's divisions in the world of this fic, just different weight classes). 
> 
> randori - free form practice. essentially sparring.
> 
> tori/uke - the tori is the person who performs the technique, while the uke receives the technique.
> 
> judoka - practitioner of judo
> 
> ippon - ippon is basically the judo equivalent of a knock out. It's awarded for a decisive technique, so things like completing a throw under control, or getting someone in a choke or joint lock, or a hold that they can't escape from for 25 seconds... scoring ippon ends the match. ippon = 1 full point
> 
> Waza-ari - the second highest score. 1/2 point. basically for almost getting the throw or the pin or the lock... 
> 
> That's all I can think of right now.
> 
> I am unhealthily dependent on external validation, so please consider leaving a comment.


End file.
